


Indigo

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Breathplay, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-canon. Daario is a young sellsword in Oberyn’s new company, and subtlety is not one of his arts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pouletinbondage for round 3 of the Smutty Westeros Exchange on LJ. Prompt as seen in summary. Who knows if these ages gel with canon, but in this, Daario’s about 17 and Oberyn’s about 23. So, warning for underage, and also breathplay/asphyxiation.

The boy is at it again.

Oberyn pauses at the entrance of his tent to watch him, amused. The boy is one of the newer recruits, and by rights he should be at the far end of the field with those of his ilk, preparing himself for the eventuality of battle. The Myrish nobles have been long in responding to Oberyn’s stipulations, but they should receive word within the week. He’d given orders for all his men to be prepared to move at a moment’s notice.

And yet here is the Tyroshi scamp once again, drilling his forms in careful view of Oberyn’s own headquarters, far away from the practice yards they’d set up. His hair, a flamboyant shade of purple in the Tyroshi fashion, is still damp from the river, so he cannot have been out here under the Essosi sun for very long. He has set aside his shirt, and the harsh yellow light of midday beats down on the nicely formed planes of his stomach and chest. Oberyn rakes his eyes over the display with no small amount of appreciation, and continues watching through the young man’s almost instantaneous response. In the midst of a swooping strike to attack an unseen enemy, the lithe body turns to him, and bows elegantly over his two swords. A little smile cuts into the smooth cheek.

 _Like an arrogant housecat_ , Oberyn thinks with an inward smile, and sweeps into his tent without acknowledging the boy’s gesture. He is fresh from the river himself, and doesn’t trouble himself with the buttons to his shirt as he pours himself a splash of wine and settles behind his desk. A messenger had come and gone in his absence; there is a small, neat pile of missives waiting for him.

Cocking a foot onto the table, he begins to sort through them. He is halfway through a scolding from Doran — par for the course; his brother makes certain to air his grievances amidst happy news of the little ones, so that Oberyn is always caught just the slightest bit off guard — when the flap to his tent is unceremoniously opened.

His brows raise, and for a moment he thinks that the boy has taken his brazenness another step further. But it is only Arlan, his second in command. The old Pentoshi sellsword has a brusque manner and a sharper tongue, born of years in this bloody business. Oberyn is glad to have found him; he will be the ideal candidate to inherit the company, when mother Dorne calls him home once more.

“Two things,” Arlan says without greeting or preamble, remaining near the tent’s entrance. Oberyn takes a swallow of his wine to hide his smile, and inclines his head in an order for Arlan to continue. “We may have some new recruits. About a dozen or so; Lysenes, all of them, but they look sturdy enough. You said you wanted to test the strength of the next batch yourself, so I’ll have them ready for you in three hours.”

“Good, good,” Oberyn says, lacing his fingers together. Temporary though this venture might be, it will have his name attached to it for a long time to come. The foundation has to be strong. Sellswords might be in want of honour, but they would never be in want of business and blood. “Make sure to tell Golgath and Surd to be there as well.”

“I will.”

Oberyn nods, and then waits a moment.

“You said there were two things?” he prompts.

Arlan jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and his expression of constant irritation grows by leaps and bounds. 

“For the love of all that is holy, do something about Naharis.”

He is pointing, of course, to the boy, who is presumably still outside, playing at practising his drill sequences. Oberyn is forced to suppress another grin at his second in command’s look, which is equal parts disdainful and pained. 

“Yes, he has been making a habit out of it, hasn’t he?” he comments casually, finishing Doran’s letter and rolling it back up with a snap. “I wonder what he could want.”

“He wants to sit on your cock, and you damn well know it,” Arlan snaps irritably. “Make haste and give it to him, or tell him off, or whatever you will; just stop him from making a fucking spectacle of himself out there.”

Oberyn doesn’t bother to try hiding his smirk this time, and Arlan’s scowl is an immensely cheering thing.

“Not to worry, my friend, I shall deal with him,” he assures him, waving a hand. “Send him in when you go.”

He gets another gimlet-eyed look from his second in command before the man grunts, and disappears from the tent. Oberyn chuckles, leaning back as he picks up another missive. Not the way he had envisioned spending his afternoon, but Arlan is right; he has to address it sooner or later. And when it comes to passing the time, it is a better way than most.

A letter from Daja catches his eye, and he opens it up as there comes yet another disturbance from the mouth of the tent; a gust of wind, a small cloud of dust. A lucky thing, receiving this missive; Doran has his ways, but Oberyn had not expected Daja’s letters to find him, given his erratic movements across the continent over the past several months.

“Oh gracious prince, to what do I owe the—”

Oberyn flicks a palm up for silence, not raising his eyes to meet young Naharis, nor letting his amusement show on his face. The boy certainly is keen, no matter that he tries to affect a tone of nonchalance. Oberyn can hear his breathing in the ensuing quiet. 

“Secure the flaps,” he orders with a wave of his hand, and the boy turns to do so, at an exaggeratedly unhurried pace. Oberyn ignores him in favour of reading. 

When he gets into the heart of Daja’s words, rolling across the page in her sprawling hand, he lets out a low sound of satisfaction.

“Favourable news, my prince?” the boy calls out, seemingly unable to help himself. Oberyn finally glances up. The youth is near rocking on the balls of his feet, palms curling around the hilts of his twin swords, strapped to his sides. His desire is naked in his eyes.

“Very much so.” Oberyn beckons. “Come, pour me some wine.”

There is just the barest sliver of hesitation, a quicksilver battle between desire and pride, before he steps forward to see the command through. Naharis holds the wine bottle against his bare chest to uncork it, full of pomp and unnecessary flourishes. Smooth fingers wrap carefully around the long neck of the bottle as he pours into the proffered goblet, stroking up and down. Oberyn watches him with lazily lidded eyes. Subtlety is an art that this one obviously has little time for.

“What gives cause for celebration, my prince?” he asks, not letting the silence stretch too long. “Do we set out for Myr? My swords will be glad of it; they have not tasted death this week, and I am afraid the starvation makes them rust.”

His eyes glint with blue fire, and Oberyn is forced to disappoint him.

“Not quite yet,” he says. “This message brings news of life, rather than upcoming death.” Naharis cocks his head in the way of the politely confused, and Oberyn explains. “My fourth child has been born.”

Naharis doesn’t miss a beat. “My congratulations, Prince Oberyn. Might I suggest a name for the child? Daario rolls off the tongue quite nicely, does it not?”

“Daario,” Oberyn drawls, drawing his flint-eyed gaze over the boy. “I hadn’t bothered to learn your given name; thank you for providing it.”

Naharis — _Daario_ , Oberyn thinks, testing the weight of it — smiles sharply, a vision of confidence. He touches his little wisp of a blond beard, and bows low in acknowledgement. Once again, it calls to mind a very self-satisfied feline, who drops a prize at his master’s feet and waits to be petted.

“It is not to be, I’m afraid,” Oberyn says, smiling at the thought. “It is another daughter that I have welcomed.”

“Keep the name in mind then, for the son that may one day spring from your loins. Or simply keep it close, to whichever body part seems appropriate.” 

Daario is still smirking, lightly trailing a hand along the neck of the wine bottle. Oberyn sips from his goblet, savouring the good dark Dornish red. He has to admire the boy’s bravado, and cannot deny that he sees a bit of himself in him. At six and ten, he would not have hesitated to make a grasp for what he wanted, either. _Had_ not hesitated, and it had culminated in that unfortunate business with Lord Yronwood. But Aisla had been a truly magnificent woman, and he sees no use in regretting the affair, after it is long done.

He flicks his eyes back to the young sellsword, taking another swallow of wine.

“Tell me, what was that supposed to accomplish?” he asks, cocking his head outside, where Daario had been so lately positioned. He is mostly wondering out loud, just to know what answer he’ll be given.

Daario shrugs. He finally relinquishes his hold on the bottle of wine. His eyes dart towards the open neck, and Oberyn is pleased to see that he does not give in to the impulse to take a drink without being given leave to.

“I have already bested all those worth besting within my rank; I thought that I might find a more appreciative audience here.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Let the others have their week of rest. I mislike that I must stagnate this way. Ever since I got the first hair on my balls, I’ve not lived a day where a man has not tried to kill me.” His hands drop to his waist as he makes the boast. “I cannot count a day well spent otherwise.”

“Perhaps you should wait until you’ve grown them all to complain, boy,” Oberyn suggests mildly.

“Ah! You wound me so, my prince.” But for all he professes himself insulted, Daario still maintains his fetching grin. “You cannot be so many years beyond my seven and ten,” he muses. “Six, no more than seven, surely.”

Again, his blue eyes flash, sparking in his handsome face. Oberyn stretches to his feet on an impulse, and sees how the sudden movement makes Daario jerk back, if only for a moment. He smiles thinly, and strides over to the other side of the table, goblet in hand. 

“If you take issue with being called a boy, mayhap you should act like less of one,” he suggests. He raises the goblet and presses it against lips that part all too easily to accept the slow trickle of liquid. Daario lifts a hand to steady the receptacle; there is a faint tremor evident in his wrist, and his nipples have gone hard and pointed. Oberyn quirks his lips, and waits for him to drain the cup. Then he tosses it back towards the table.

“On the bed,” he orders softly, jerking his chin towards the makeshift structure in one corner.

Daario’s lips are wet with liquid that he hurries to lick away.

“My prince?” he asks, even as he takes a step back as directed. Oberyn follows, eating up the space between them as he removes his shirt.

“On the bed,” he repeats, “and take off your clothes. I am going to fuck you. That is how you saw this ending, no?”

“I would never be so bold as to presume to know a prince’s mind,” Daario protests, still aiming for suave, but his breeches and boots fall off his body as quickly as if they’d melted away. He throws them aside, weapons clattering, and moves swiftly to sit on the edge of the bed. His manhood is already stiff, standing up in its little nest of violet hair. Oberyn barks out a laugh.

“I see that you are Tyroshi to the bone.” He ambles over to one of his chests, and roots around for a bottle that he easily finds. Daario is watching him with heated eyes, stroking a hand over his cock, bringing it to full hardness. Oberyn watches him, taking his time as he approaches, and then slaps the hand away. “You can touch that when I say you can.”

Daario huffs out a breath. “As my prince commands.”

Oberyn looks down at him appraisingly, and throws the bottle of oil onto the bed before sliding a hand into the deep purple locks. Still damp. So too for his skin, marked with tiny droplets of perspiration from his exercises outside. He brushes his thumb across one of the high cheekbones, then lower to lips that would put any courtesan to shame. The boy breathes slowly, one careful inhalation at a time, but Oberyn can see his excitement mounting, despite his efforts to tame it.

Testing a theory, Oberyn burrows a hand into Daario’s curls and tugs him back hard, baring the sun stroked marble of his throat. Daario hisses, a flush crawling to the surface of his skin. Oberyn twists harder, until the force is just shy of painful, and a moan escapes from parted lips.

Oberyn laughs.

“Is that what you like, then?” he murmurs. Daario’s eyes are fluttering, as if fighting to stay open, and his breathing has gone louder, but he still manages to conjure up a smirk from somewhere.

“Among other things,” is his answer, and he finds Oberyn’s other wrist and brings it to rest on his throat, just under his chin. Oberyn squeezes, and watches with faint amusement as Daario’s cock jumps. 

“Ah,” he says, and flexes his fingers just so. The boy moans, and though his breathing can’t be too much compromised at this point, it sounds reedy and breathless.

“Harder,” he demands, with just the hint of a gasp, and Oberyn obliges him for a moment before undoing his breeches and dropping them to the floor.

Daario doesn’t even need to be prompted; he surges forward and fastens his mouth on Oberyn’s erection with one slow, sucking slide. There’s a fervent kind of finesse to it, a measured eagerness as he sucks and licks. He draws his tongue up the underside and laves at the spot just under the head; Oberyn hisses, tightening his hold in the boy’s hair, which serves to make him moan more, pant harder. 

“Open wider,” Oberyn orders softly, thumbing at Daario’s chin. He twists the purple hair around his fist, pulls Daario’s head back, and eases his cock into his mouth slowly, along his tongue and straight to the back of his throat. Daario groans around it, tipping his head back further as he grips Oberyn’s hips and allows him to fuck his mouth. He expects him to gag, but Daario either suppresses the instinct or lacks it altogether. It’s good and soft and warm, and Oberyn moves in and out of him for a long, slow minute, rubbing the underside of his cock back and forth along Daario’s tongue, murmuring in appreciation. A reflexive tear slips out of the corner of the sellsword’s eye, and Oberyn wipes it away with his thumb before he pulls out, and kisses his way along the stain. Daario leans up into it, gasping for breath.

“That was very nice,” Oberyn says, wiping a bit of saliva off of Daario’s lower lip.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Daario rubs his jaw and grins sharply. “I once spent three nights with a Lyseni whore, and fucked her so well that she agreed to teach me some of her secrets.”

Laughter tickles at Oberyn’s throat. “Is that so? Come, show me more.”

Daario sucks him to full hardness, enveloping him in the heat of his mouth. Oberyn breathes harshly, one hand on the boy’s jaw; he makes a very pretty picture like this, lips spread around his cock, eyes sometimes closed in concentration, sometimes looking up at him intensely. Oberyn has never been the best at denying himself pleasure, and when the urge to kiss those swollen lips comes, he gives in to it, jerking Daario up by his hair to slant their mouths together. Silence creeps in for a spell as they speak in tongues and soft moans, sharing the bittersalt taste of pre-ejaculate and the remnants of the wine.

Giving the pink lips a last biting kiss, Oberyn pushes the sellsword away, and gestures him up the bed. Daario goes, palming his still hard cock for a moment before a look from Oberyn quells the movement. Oberyn slips out of the rest of his clothes, and grabs the bottle of oil.

“Spread your legs for me,” he hums, dripping oil over his fingers. Daario props himself up on his elbows and does so, his chest rising and falling beautifully. Oberyn kisses his way up it, pausing to nuzzle at Daario’s navel and ribs and his nipples, as the first finger teases its way into his hole.

He groans very nicely indeed, and whatever quip he might have been ready to make falls away immediately. Oberyn leans back to observe as he fingers him open. Daario’s body is a riot of colour, from the purple curls that spill out across the sheets, to the lighter violet of his pubic hair, to the blushing red and pink of his chest and nipples and cock, to the trickle of blond hair on his lower stomach, to the blazing blue of his eyes. He cants his hips, groaning as Oberyn slips out to insert a second finger, and then a third.

“Deeper, please,” he cries, and Oberyn would call it begging but for the fact that it sounds like a demand, breathless and wavering though the voice behind it is. Oberyn ignores him, sucking one of his nipples to a peak as he stretches him, and takes care to avoid the spot that would give him the most pleasure. Daario rolls his hips in frustration, and his cock jerks and drips moisture onto his stomach.

“Ah, not even the gods could torture me so sweetly,” he moans, and Oberyn has to smile at his dramatics. He flexes his fingers, fucking him properly, and Daario moves to meet his thrusts. Oberyn finds the spot, and touches it once, very lightly, and the response that it elicits is very beautiful to behold. Daario gapes, stiffening, before his body goes slack and wanton again and he writhes, trying to fuck himself on Oberyn’s fingers. 

“My, you _have_ been wanting this, haven’t you?” Oberyn muses, unable to help his curving grin. In answer, Daario grabs his unoccupied hand, and pulls Oberyn forward. All of his weight shifts, and when Daario presses the captured forearm across the column of his throat, for a moment, all of Oberyn’s weight bears down on him. Daario gasps, and his face floods with colour.

“Really?” Oberyn says with a raised brow, adjusting himself so that the pressure is not so great. Daario smiles in that cocksure way of his, blunted by his want.

“I did say, did I not, that I do not count a day well spent unless…”

“Yes, yes, I recall.” Oberyn smiles and pulls his fingers out. “On your knees,” he says, slapping Daario briskly on the thigh. He reaches for the oil again, and busies himself with slicking up his cock. Daario moves as fluidly as he does with his swords, rolling himself onto his stomach and rising up onto his hands and knees within seconds. His body is arched like a rolling field of gold, and such a display is meant to be kissed, and so Oberyn falls to his duty. One for his ankle, another for the underside of his knee, one for the curse of his ass, yet one more for the small of his back. Daario shivers under his attentions.

“My prince is a romantic; I had no idea.”

“Your prince is many things.” Oberyn cups the shapely buttocks before him, spreads them with his thumbs as he leans forward. “You can touch yourself now,” he whispers, and the boy’s hand flies to his cock, hanging unattended beneath him, so quickly it might have been there all along. Oberyn chuckles, and inches forward on his knees, slowly pressing his cock into the welcoming heat.

“Fuck…” Daario mutters the expletive like a prayer, and Oberyn echoes it in a whisper at his ear, his torso draped along Daario’s back. He pauses, fully seated inside the lithe body, and braces a hand on a warm, smooth thigh. Then, he jerks Daario back so that they are kneeling back to chest, and curls an arm around his neck. Daario swallows, and the apple of his throat bumps against the crook of Oberyn’s elbow.

“Like this?” he asks, flexing his arm experimentally. He is not a small man, and the muscles of his forearm are half again as big as Daario’s. This cannot be very comfortable for the young man, but of course, comfort is not what he seeks. He doesn’t answer right away, and Oberyn pulls back and thrusts in hard.

Daario lets out a cry with as much air behind it as he can get; it almost sounds like a growl. “Yes, yes, just like that, my prince. Fuck me, fuck me hard.”

One of his hands rests lightly on Oberyn’s arm, as if to ensure that it will not move, and the other strokes his manhood. Oberyn kisses the back of his neck, lips catching on purple strands. The heat of the day is nothing to the heat that is generated between them, sweat forming along their arms and backs as Oberyn thrusts in and out. The tightness of him is delicious, and Oberyn drags the hand on his thigh up to his ass, the better to grab a palmful and squeeze it as he fucks him. He knows when he’s found the right angle; Daario’s breath hitches, a soft, barely-there sound from his constricted throat. Oberyn can tell that he wants to moan, to scream perhaps, but his chest is so taut he can barely manage panting little breaths. When Oberyn loosens his hold by a fraction, Daario shoves at his arm, urging him to tighten it again.

Ah, but he could fuck him like this for ages, one hand on his ass keeping it spread for him, lips whispering nonsense into his ear. He leans forward so that he can look at him; Daario’s hand flies frantically over his erection, and his eyes are closed in his ecstasy. Oberyn idly contemplates snatching his hand away, not letting him come until he says so. He could draw this out until nightfall, fuck him until he loses that smirk and that arrogant look, fuck him until he’s desperate and crying to come.

But he does not have until nightfall, he only has a few hours, and the boy is already trembling in his grasp. Oberyn blows warmly on his ear, pistons his hips hard and fast so that they slap against Daario’s ass with every thrust, and tightens his chokehold with one abrupt squeeze. He feels Daario come more than he sees or hears it; he goes taut around Oberyn and his entire body shudders for a long moment. 

As soon as Oberyn removes his arm, Daario falls forward onto his upper body. Oberyn would think that he has passed out, if not for the glittering blue gaze that catches his own as the sellsword sucks down gasp after gasp of air. Oberyn pulls out, arranges his lover so that he is flat on his back, spreads his legs wide and fucks right back into him. Daario groans, watching him intently, and Oberyn stares back. Warmth builds in his stomach, and his balls start drawing up in that pleasantly familiar way. Daario starts licking his own ejaculate off of his hand lazily, and Oberyn has a moment to huff out a breath of laughter before he is coming as well, Daario squeezing around him to draw out his climax.

It takes a few moments for the thundering pleasure to die down to a pleasing hum. He stretches himself out next to Daario, who is still loose-limbed and lax from his own climax, but his cocksure expression is already back in place.

“You’re alive, then,” Oberyn says, running a hand through his hair. It has slipped out of its little queue, but he cannot be troubled at the moment to look for the leather thong that secured it. Daario turns to him to grin indolently; Oberyn sees for the first time that he is missing a tooth. It makes him look younger, even as his fiery eyes age him considerably.

“Alive, yes,” he replies, stretching. His hand massages the front expanse of his neck, where there will surely be a bruise tomorrow. It has already started to form; a mix of purple and blue. “But if I had perished… ah, what a way to go!”

Oberyn laughs, slapping him on the hip, and moves to sit up, leaning back on his elbows. He will have to get up, in time, to see to his correspondence, fully contemplate the joy of another child, get ready to meet with the new recruits. But for now, he sits quietly, listening to the sound of Daario’s breathing. He has proved a welcome distraction, and Oberyn is not ready to stop being distracted quite yet. They have another hour, at least.

“Well, my prince. I suppose you shall be wanting me to…?”

He looks over to see Daario making vague movements to leave the bed. Oberyn snorts.

“Do not insult me; you have only come once.”

Daario sits back, and Oberyn takes a moment to savour the look of him being unabashedly surprised; he doesn’t suppose it’s an expression he wears often. Chuckling, he grasps the boy by the chin.

“There will be no chance to make a habit of this, I think; not when we will be moving soon. But you will tarry a while, yes?”

It takes him a moment, but all that bravado and charm is soon slinking back into his face.

“Could there be any other answer, sweet prince?”

“There could be many,” Oberyn says dryly. “Say what you mean, Naharis.”

“Yes,” Daario purrs, crawling over to Oberyn’s side to steal a kiss. “And I think that I shall be saying that word many a time more, if I have the breath to do it.”

Oberyn, wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck to pull him closer, concurs.


End file.
